


Nobody's Woman

by SimplyLucia



Series: Vile [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A slightly different take after the battle of the Blackwater Bay, Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Dubious Consent, F/M, King's Landing, King's Landing AU, Masturbation, Mentions of Rape, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Profanity, Prompt Fill, SanSan Russian Roulette, Sandor centered, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyLucia/pseuds/SimplyLucia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Sandor encounter each other once more in King's Landing, the two of them just running into each other accidentally like the previous times (this is after Sansa's betrothal to Joffrey has been ended, but before she was married to the Imp). Prompt by Ladytp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ladytp wrote this prompt for the SanSan Russian Roulette on LiveJournal.  
> This is happening after the Battle of Blackwater Bay. Sandor didn’t desert after the battle and never came to Sansa’s bedroom that night (some may disagree, but I don’t picture him telling her he’s about to leave King’s Landing then not doing what he said...) so the Unkiss never happened.  
> I don't know yet if I'll wrote a sequel. Depends on the comments I get...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin.

Disgraced but free, Sansa Stark had the wit to feign sorrow when the king announced the end of their betrothal; then a hopeful smile lit up her face. _It doesn’t fucking matter now,_ Sandor told himself from the corner of the Great Hall where he was standing, draped in his white cloak, pretending he was the embodiment of justice and honor. The court only had eyes for Margaery Tyrell’s tits, forgetting about the little bird. Disgraced but free, the Stark girl wouldn’t be raped by the boy who had had her father killed. _Why do I care?_

Sansa looked as lighthearted as a hostage could be while sashaying towards the bronze doors. Then Littlefinger approached her; in the twinkling of an eye, whatever the bastard told her darkened her pretty face. _Bugger him. Bugger them all._

* * *

Was it an accident when Sandor ran into her, a few hours later? He didn’t know and he didn’t give a rat’s ass. Out of her cage, the little bird looked as frightened as usual when his scars were in her field of vision. She mumbled her proverbial courtesies, speaking nonsense about his bravery on the battlefield. He barked a laugh, making her step back and bump into the ocher wall. Stuck between him and the wall, she looked tiny and for the first time, not completely out of his reach. _Not out of anyone’s reach._

“When you’re nobody’s woman you’re everyone’s,” he rasped. “Saw you with Littlefinger.”

Of course, her blue eyes widened in shock: she frantically glanced on both sides, waiting for some bloody knight to rescue her. A step forward and he almost pinned her to the wall. Realization dawned on him: as long as she was Joffrey’s toy, she was his to torment, yet she was safer than she would be now. Gazing down at her throat, he couldn’t help drooling over the swell of her breasts. Loyalty had prevented him from coveting his master’s betrothed so far; at least, he had kept his desire at bay by remembering whose grandfather had given him a shelter after his own father’s death: if said loyalty had lost its meaning on the Blackwater banks, the end of her betrothal had wiped out whatever remained of it. His cock twitched in his breeches.

“Ravishing you in this hallway is not treason anymore.” Self-hatred made his laugh saturnine while he watched tears welling up in her eyes. Panting, Sandor ducked his head just enough to brush her auburn locks with his cracked lips, inhaling her scent in the process. _Fuck. Innocence has an arousing smell._ “Bar your door, girl. For Littlefinger, for Dontos, for Joffrey too, for he’ll try to have both the rose and the she-wolf if he can.”

The moment he stepped back, she almost crumbled to the floor. “And bar your door because I might come uninvited tonight.”  
As he strode off, self-hatred gave way to the strangest kind of solace, for as long as she was scared of him, she’d stay alert.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the deserted corridors, only torches lit his way; wine made him stumble twice. He nonetheless went on and cursed inwardly when he realized his heart beat faster. Stupid dog. What do you have in mind? A question haunted him though, since their last encounter: did she bar her door at night? Was she more careful? I want to know if she’s safe, he thought. I’ll check her door, then I’ll go back to bed. Deep down, he knew he was lying to himself, that he wanted something different, yet he couldn’t voice it, even in the confines of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you how happy I was when I received so much love for the first chapter. This story will be short (there's one more chapter after this one) and it will be rather dark. Betsy Lee wanted me to write Sandor's visit to Sansa; that's what I did!  
> Feel free to correct my mistakes.  
> Warning for adult themes and profanity.

He had thought Tywin’s return to the capital would change something to the doubts that had crept in since he had fought Stannis’ men on the Blackwater riverbanks; he had believed the sight of the man whose sire had ennobled Sandor’s grand father, turning a kennel master into a landed knight from one day to the next, could reawaken his loyalty to the Lannisters, but the sobering truth came down to this: whatever he had felt for the Lannisters - call it dedication or habit-induced obedience - that had died silently a long time ago and the battle of the Blackwater Bay had just opened his eyes. _I was a buggering fool. Tywin won’t do shit for me. He used me, when he thought I could be useful. That’s all there is: a man using a fucking idiot for what he wants and letting him down afterwards. They gave me a bloody cloak like they throw scraps to their dogs._

Sandor Clegane had watched Tywin Lannister take possession of the chambers of the Hand - once the Imp, more dead than alive, had been sent to another part of the Red Keep. He had contemplated Tywin’s tall frame as the Lord of Casterly Rock stepped in the apartments of the Hand, a ghost of a smile on his noble features. He was now the Hand of the King and, although it remained unofficial, the most powerful man in Westeros, giving orders to the king himself, but he was nothing to Sandor.

How was it that his loyalty to the Lannisters had vanished long ago, unbeknownst to him? _I keep bowing my head, but my faith in Tywin Lannister is no more._ Why had he stayed there, if it didn’t mean anything to him? One could have said his family owed everything to the Lannisters; people recalled these three dogs which had died to protect the late Lord of Casterly Rock. Sandor scowled; it had nothing to do with his family’s story nor with the notion he was indebted to the Lannisters. That fucking debt, he had repaid it by shedding blood without asking questions whenever Tywin needed his sword. By force of habit, he had kept doing these things and sour red wine had maintained him in a haze that dulled his senses and prevented him from thinking. Sour red was what he needed tonight.

After the end of his watch, Sandor Clegane had stridden to the kitchens, looking for wineskins, knowing it was the only way to lull himself into oblivion. If his scars weren’t enough, the mad look in his eyes cleared his way, making the servants step aside and lower their gaze as he moved past them. Glaring at the kitchen wenches, he took two wineskins and walked away without further ado. The faint smell coming from the wineskins tickled his nostrils and made his strides a bit longer. _It will soon be as dark as in the ugliest whore’s ass, anyway. Time to imbibe and to chase away whatever keeps me awake._

His bedchamber, despite its bare walls and plain furniture, was a sort of shelter. He barred the door, shrugged off his white cloak and dumped his sword belt to the floor, then he sighed with relief as the pieces of his armor fell with a jangling sound. Once freed of the armor, he stretched his back, decided to keep his breeches on, but removed his tunic and slumped down wearily on his bed. Sandor cursed at once: he had left the wineskins on the table across the room. _Fuck. Can’t even focus enough not to forget the wine._ With a groan, he got on his feet, grabbed one wineskin, then angrily took the other one. _One is not enough. Nothing is never enough, these days._ The mattress sagged under his weight as he sat down on the bed. The first swig was incredibly satisfying but it only quenched his thirst. _More, I need more._ Before he realized it, he had drowned the first wineskin but the blessed languor he yearned for was long in coming.

When the cork of the second wineskin came free, Sandor raised it to his lips and took long gulps, careless of the red liquid rolling down his chin. As the silhouettes of Tywin Lannister and the boy king faded away when he closed his eyes, his unease dissolved in the sour red. His head began to reel; a satisfied grunt escaped his lips when he stretched out his long legs on the bed. That was the moment he preferred or perhaps the only moment when he felt like nobody would piss him off. Of its own accord, one of his hands unlaced his breeches and, sliding under his small clothes, his fingers curled around his cock. _Good._ When he needed to relieve the tension without beating or killing someone, there were only two ways he knew: sour red was efficient up to a certain point and fucking his hand didn’t keep at bay the dark thoughts that haunted him, but once combined, both methods lured his body and his mind: he easily found sleep afterwards. _Most of the time._

He tugged at his smallclothes until his cock was free and he gave it a long pull. _Forget it all,_ he mouthed. _The king, Tywin, the fire and all the fools who come and go inside the Red Keep._ As his fingers went up and down his member, soon finding the right pace, his head lolled back in pleasure. He could have whoever he wanted this way, even _her. The Stark girl._ _When did her image replace that of the whores I pay to fuck me?_ It was the least of his problems when he pictured himself kneading her tits - tits slightly bigger than they were, as if she was older in his dreams - or her sucking his cock. That was what she did in his daydreams, her big blue eyes looking up at him. Yet she was a mere child; his fantasy, a tragic farce that only corrupted her innocence without giving him the satisfaction he needed, because she would never share his bed, even now that Joffrey had rejected her.

His release nevertheless came, bringing no joy but alleviating some of the tension he felt. Panting, he wiped his seed on his small clothes; after a short while, he managed to get up and to undress. Bare-naked, Sandor staggered to his bed where he collapsed and soon, guilt left a taste of ashes in his mouth. _What kind of freak was he to imagine himself fucking a girl so young?_ Panting, he squeezed his eyes shut to remove the thoughts. _Worse than Littlefinger,_ he told himself. He had loathed the prospect of Sansa wedded and bedded by Joffrey but what he kept doing at night, imagining he could take her, was just as vile.

Fucking his hand made him thirsty: he grabbed the almost empty wineskin and sucked out the last drops noisily. It didn’t appease the boiling feeling in the pit of his stomach, though. As he sat on the edge of his bed, naked, his elbows digging in his open thighs, the absurdity of his situation became almost tangible: serving a king who used his skills but despised him, attracted to a girl who was too beautiful and too high-born for him. Drunk enough not to be able to think straight, but still awake after draining two wineskins. _Such a failure._

He cradled his head in his large hands, then he lied down, hoping sleep would put a temporary end to his misery. Nothing happened. Sandor could tell he was exhausted, he felt it in his limbs, but he couldn’t close his eyes. _I’m so tired I can’t sleep_. The irony made him snort. Sleep shunned him, from then on, he had only two choices: tossing and turning in his bed or meandering through the hallways. He chose the latter, groaned and quickly got dressed. His face twisted in disgust when he stepped on the bundle of his dirty clothes; he kicked it further and took his sword belt by reflex before leaving his room.

Sandor didn’t know where he was heading to, or if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t know why he was walking to the Stark girl’s bedchamber. She attracted him as if her innocence could wash his sins away and at the same time, he couldn’t help worrying about her safety. Sansa Stark was fragile and too fucking trustful for her own good. Now that Joffrey had put an end to their betrothal, the first bastard who had both a keep and the Lannisters’ support would claim her to become the new Warden of the North. Another betrothal, another man and the same fucking conclusion, for her: she’d spread her legs and she’d give her lord husband a bevy of bawling children.

In the deserted corridors, only torches lit his way; wine made him stumble twice. He nonetheless went on and cursed inwardly when he realized his heart beat faster. _Stupid dog. What do you have in mind?_ A question haunted him though, since their last encounter: did she bar her door at night? Was she more careful? _I want to know if she’s safe, he thought. I’ll check her door, then I’ll go back to bed._ Deep down, he knew he was lying to himself, that he wanted _something different_ , yet he couldn’t voice it, even in the confines of his mind.

His heartbeat loud in his ears, he stopped in front of her door and his fingertips brushed the solid wood, going down until they found the door handle. He pushed it: nothing moved and he deduced that she had heeded his words. _Good girl,_ he mused, _she obeyed._ How was it that he felt so disappointed, then? Standing there, he laid his forehead against the door, inhaling deeply. He tried to imagine her in bed, pushing aside the covers while asleep and the mental image of Sansa wearing but her night shift made the speed of his pulse increase. He smacked his lips.

“Sansa,” he called softly, “Sansa.” It was a whimper she couldn’t hear, yet only the thick door separated him from the girl who gave no respite to his troubled mind. Before he realized it, his fist hurt the wooden panel with a thud. “Sansa!” he said, louder this time. “Sansa!” His voice conveyed anger and desperation in equal parts. Ashamed, he considered running away, but the harm had been done: now that he was so close, he couldn’t just retrace his steps.

Both fists banging on the door, he went on, ruing his pathetic attitude. His body now leaned against the wooden panels as he chanted her name, again and again. A part of him wished she’d never see the fearsome Hound in such a state of despair: he nevertheless kept begging her.

The sound of his fists knocking at her door was loud enough to drown out any noise, so when he heard a timid voice coming from inside, he almost jumped with surprise. Dumfounded, he listened to the creaking noise of the bar she was most likely removing, telling himself it couldn’t be true. _I fucking felt asleep and I’m having the strangest dream._

Sandor had hardly enough time to stand up straight before the door opened, revealing a part of the little bird’s cage lit by candles and said little bird wearing a shawl over her night shift.

“What do you want?” she asked, glancing in the hallway to make sure nobody was there. “Please come in,” she added as he remained speechless.

 _Buggering hells, she wants me to come in her room._ He shuffled inside, suppressing a dark, humorless laugh. He closed the door behind him and gave her a long look. “What do you want?” she repeated, as he towered above her. His smirk and his lustful look made her shiver, if his intrusion wasn’t enough.

“Little bird,” he growled, “you shouldn’t have let me in.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Of course, you are the bravest member of the Kingsguard...” She paused, giving herself time to regain her words, yet when she spoke again her voice was barely above a whisper. “You wouldn’t be Joffrey’s sworn shield if you weren’t brave.”
> 
> When he heard the king’s name, he couldn’t help scowl at her. Fuck the king. Her deep blue eyes questioning his attitude reminded him where he wanted this conversation to go and his sullen expression turned into a smirk. “If I fought so bravely, the other night, am I not entitled to some reward?” he rasped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of this short fic. I’ve been really touched by the reactions to this story and I hope you all enjoy reading the ending, even if it’s probably different from what you expected... Let’s say this is not a fairy tale.  
> Warning for dub-con and mention of rape.

The flickering light of the candles, behind Sansa, didn’t allow him to see her face properly and it only increased his impatience; with a brusqueness that startled the girl, Sandor seized her shoulders and made her spin on her heels, so that she faced the only source of light. His own features therefore remained in the darkness as he stood in front of her and he wondered if her suddenly distressed look had something to do with it: now she’d listen his words without seeing him, without anticipating the changes in his tone. However, the reek of alcohol she smelled on him might explain the panic in her eyes.

“The little bird can’t see my scars anymore, this way,” he mocked, letting go of her. _She should be pleased._ “But I can see you.” He studied her, taking in the auburn braids, the burgundy shawl she wrapped herself in with a shudder, and further down, the thin, supple linen of her white night shift. “Why did you open to me?” he asked her accusingly.

“You were knocking at my door,” she gasped. “You were making so much noise you could have woken up my maids.”

The girl wasn’t wrong, yet Sandor refused to admit it, judging she was decidedly, incurably naive. _Foolish little bird. Why letting me in?_ He chuckled darkly, then he leaned forward to whisper in her ear: “So you’re more afraid of your gossiping maids than of being alone with a man in your bedchamber?”

Eyes widening in panic, she recoiled, giving him another occasion to laugh at her expense.

“I didn’t want you to get caught,” she pleaded. Distraught, the little bird didn’t know where to go and after two steps backward, she bumped into the wall, the back of her pretty head touching the tapestry that adorned her bedchamber. She averted her gaze as he came closer and stopped at arm’s length of her shivering frame.

He shook his head slowly. “So they told you wildfire scared the hell out of me and you think I’m craven enough to fear that someone catches me in your room?”

The girl squeezed her eyes shut for a split second, before daring lock eyes with him again. _At least, she’s looking at me straight in the eyes._ “You fought bravely, everybody knows it. You’re not a craven.”

“You know I shit my pants when I see fire.” More than once, he had rued whatever had made him tell her where his scars came from. _Drunk and unable to hold my tongue, like tonight. My encounters with the little bird are all alike._

“It makes your presence on the battlefield all the more brave...”

He expected a _“Ser”_ or another fucking courtesy of hers at the end of the sentence, but she stopped short from saying more. _Mayhap the little bird learned her lesson about the way I consider courtesies._ “... all the more brave?” he spat. He glared at her, before his gaze ventured further down, on her throat she hid under the dark red shawl. “I’m brave, then?” he asked, realizing the speed of his pulse increased with each passing second. Sandor flexed his fingers once or twice, trying to imagine what her body would felt like underneath him.

“Of course, you are the bravest member of the Kingsguard...” She paused, giving herself time to regain her words, yet when she spoke again her voice was barely above a whisper. “You wouldn’t be Joffrey’s sworn shield if you weren’t brave.”

When he heard the king’s name, he couldn’t help scowl at her. _Fuck the king._ Her deep blue eyes questioning his attitude reminded him where he wanted this conversation to go and his sullen expression turned into a smirk. “If I fought so bravely, the other night, am I not entitled to some reward?” he rasped.

It took her some time to understand what he had in mind - _another proof of her foolishness,_ he thought, observing her furrowed brow - but when she turned pale and swallowed hard, he knew she had figured out what that reward meant. If she didn’t notice it before, she could now see the longing in his expression, as he slightly turned his face toward the candles and leaned forward.

“Is it why you came to my bedchamber?” she managed to ask.

“What do you think?” he growled in response, mesmerized by the rise and fall of her chest under the woolen shawl. Glancing further down, he noticed her bare feet and her ankles showing under the night shift. At that very moment, his hand rested on the pommel of his sword, by reflex, as if there was some enemy to fight. Perhaps as if she was that enemy. Surprised by his own desire to see more of her legs, he lifted the hem of the night shift with the tip of his sword, just enough to have a look at her calves. As he did so, she shivered at the cold brush of the sheath against her skin.

She whimpered: “Please stop, Ser.”

_Ser_ , that title he loathed even more when he heard it among the bloody courtesies that poured out of her mouth, had come back. It had escaped her lips when nervousness had given way to sheer panic. Unshed tears shone in her eyes and her chin trembled. He cursed inwardly, ashamed by what he had done, and the hem of her night shift fell again, covering most of her legs. Silence stretched in the room, as she did her best to regain her composure.

“I’d rather stay alone now,” she announced, her voice a bit stiff. “It is late and I wish to rest in case my presence is needed in court tomorrow...”

For once, her chirping about the court didn’t infuriate him; quite the contrary, it aroused Sandor because she was pretending to stay calm even though he saw her legs could give out beneath her anytime. As his eyes wandered on her, lust muffled everything, making him unable to listen to her voice, indifferent to the way her words inflected at the end of each sentence, revealing her anxiety. That attitude of hers, holding her head high despite the visible fright in her eyes and in her tone, drove him mad; forgetting about the pang of guilt he had felt moments ago because of her tears, he pinned her to the wall. As he towered above her, his strong arms preventing her from flailing. _No, you’re not going anywhere._ Her tiny hands pushed against his chest uselessly, then, after a few heartbeats, she gave up and looked up at him, pleading.

“What did you have in mind, when you let me in?” he rasped.

“I don’t know.”

Feeling her body against his, as if she was underneath him, was intoxicating. When she had opened the door for him, his cock had twitched, and from that moment on, the tension between them had clouded his mind; he was hard now and he wanted her to feel his cock against her belly. Notwithstanding her protestation, he lifted her in his arms, still pinning her to the wall; her hands landed on his thick arms, her nails digging into the fabric of his tunic. Indifferent to her frantic gaze, he rocked his hips against hers. _There, see how men react to your presence._ She gasped, that time, louder than before and he wondered why she didn’t call for help. To his great surprise, she trembled in his arms but she didn’t shout, whether he scared her too much or she took some odd pleasure in the situation. At some point, he even saw her biting her bottom lip as if she was determined not to utter her visible fright.

_I need more._ Earlier that night, that same idea had struck him as he drank wine. Sansa Stark was like sour red: he couldn’t be satisfied with just a sip. That notion elicited a snigger that shook his chest and bewildered Sansa. _I want more. I need more._ He knew she was a mere child and that, come the morning, he would hate himself as much as he hated his fucking brother for what he was about to do to her; it was too late, though.

“Why couldn’t I have you?” he whispered, thinking out loud. “You’re nobody’s betrothed now.” He was so close to her he enjoyed her scent and she certainly smelled the wine on his breath. _What a downfall for the little bird,_ he thought bitterly: _she was the king’s betrothed and now she’s his dog’s prey._ A few steps behind him, her bed would be soft under their weight. She would be even softer in his arms as he would destroy that arrogant innocence she kept flaunting despite the hardships. Before carrying the girl to the bed, though, he wanted to see more of her.

“Stop hiding yourself,” he said commandingly, yanking at her shawl. “I bet you’re mouth-watering.” Too late, her hands fisted the woolen fabric in a desperate attempt to protect herself. _Pretty, foolish little bird._ He was too strong for her: the shawl fell to the floor and she whimpered, acknowledging her defeat. Oddly enough, Sandor didn’t felt the surge of excitement he expected; victory - if it was one - had a bitter taste, for once. _But I can look at her._ One hand holding the small of her back, he contemplated her silently. The night shift wasn’t as see-through as he wished, but its low-cut neckline revealed enough skin to arouse a septon and, further down, her hardened nipples showed under the fabric. _Buggering hells._

When his lips covered hers, there wasn’t the slightest trace of tenderness, only hunger and the primal desire to possess and to have something for his. Hunger made him clumsily press his lips against hers and flick his tongue against the impassable barrier of her teeth. Frustrated by her lack of reaction, for she neither fought him nor surrendered, he slid his hand up her ribcage until his thumb found the small, sensitive button of flesh of her breast. She gasped at once and he took advantage of it to deepen their kiss. Although she panicked at first, her muscles seemed to relax after a short while and her tongue tentatively met his. _You like what I’m doing to you, don’t you?_ he thought, smiling wickedly against her mouth.

Sandor kept massaging one of her tits, running the pad of his thumb on her hardened nipple, then pinching it lightly. Come the morning, he would remember that sensation, the slight tingling in his fingertips, at the exact spot where they had caressed her nipple. He was doing what he did to her in his fantasy, and if it was fucking good to do it for real, he noticed how different it felt, because caresses were obviously unfamiliar to her and also because her breasts were those of a girl, not of a woman. He sobered up instantly at the realization, breaking their kiss and stilling his hand on her breast, before putting her down.

_What am I doing?_ The little bird wasn’t steady as he stepped back; she had to hold herself to the wall behind her. She shook like a leaf and glanced at him warily. “What are you doing?” she asked, echoing his thoughts. Did she fear some trick? She had every right to be on her guard, after what had happened. He took another step back as she picked up her shawl and held it against her heart. “I promise nothing of… what happened tonight will transpire,” she added, somewhat frightened by his silence. “Will you come back?”

His heart pounding in his chest, Sandor began to realize what he had done and what he had been about to do. _A rape. I could have raped her._ As his fingers curled into balled fists, images churned in his head. He remembered the blood on the tiles in Clegane’s Keep, peasants whispering after they had kneeled on his brother’s way and later, in the aftermath of the Sack of King’s Landing, the macabre details about the way Elia of Dorne had died. Another girl left alone in the Red Keep. Another member of gallant House Clegane. _Am I just like Gregor?_

As he stared at the Stark girl, what he read in her eyes startled him: she was so fragile and so lonely she could eventually mistake lust for affection. _I don’t have anything to offer to her._ For the first time, he realized what was that feeling he couldn’t place. _The void. There’s a void inside me and it will swallow her too if I stay here any longer. She’s not safe with me._

“Will you come back?” she asked again, trembling.

He shook his head. “I’m done here. I’m leaving.”

Her eyes widened but she didn’t say anything and kept staring at him from where she was; in two strides, he was by the door.

* * *

 

At dawn, two guards were found dead by the gates. Later, when the Hound’s absence was reported and when the king publicly took offense of his desertion, calling him craven and vile, Sansa Stark was the only person in the court who didn’t nod in agreement. Thoughtful, she looked through the narrow windows of the Red Keep and wondered where Sandor Clegane was. _I’m leaving,_ he had said. Sansa kept hearing his gravelly voice when she closed her eyes. Joffrey was so furious she could have told him Clegane had threatened her and had _hurt_ her - _hurt_ was the word that kept coming back when her thoughts turned to his visit - yet she had told Sandor Clegane her lips were sealed. _For no particular reason,_ she told herself, shrugging ever so slightly.

She intended to keep that promise.


End file.
